


Visage of Torment

by Illitis



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blend of Novels/Games/Show Canon, Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Graphic Description, Humor, M/M, Mystery, Original Character(s), Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:13:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22412326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illitis/pseuds/Illitis
Summary: A collection of short stories inspired by the style of the Andrzej Sapkowski novels. Contains a blend of novel, game, and television series canon.Chaos has spilled over The Globe. Wielding its power, Sources seek purpose for themselves. Celina has chosen to lend her gift outside the dominion of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. She dives deeply into impermissible studies of magic, but for how long will the Brotherhood allow such flagrant disregard for nature to continue?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Triss Merigold, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s), Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Male Character(s), Triss Merigold/Original Female Character(s), Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1: An Uninvited Hunter**

  


**PART 1**

_“Ignis.”_ She hissed at the dead man splayed before her. He replied, rippling into a vivid flame. The night's cold was such that compromising her position was well worth the warmth fire provided. Fortunately, the glen she occupied was framed by a brush thick enough that it largely contained the light the corpse now generated. From outside its wooden walls, the flickering appeared faint enough to be mistaken for moonlight if one wasn't already aware of its presence.  
  
She crouched low over the heat of his bubbling, blackened skin, trying to retain every morsel of it she could. A stench of burnt death filled the space. Despite this, she grimaced and tugged at her leather trousers.

“Ugh.” Even the reek of the corpse did not mask the smell radiating from her person. She rose and peeled the soiled butcher's clothes from her skin, tossing them casually into a nearby patch of grass. Her bare flesh shimmered with fire, sweat, and blood. She basked for a moment in the sensation: the cold air's caress, the freedom of her nakedness. She then drew a deep breath, stood very still, and waited. The unmistakable sound of water soon crackled in her ears. She made for the alchemist's satchel and sword which she had previously draped over a nearby tree. The redwood had fallen into the glade at some point, possibly from weather or fire. She couldn't be sure. From the dangling satchel, she withdrew a blue kerchief and pursued the trickling sound of her anticipated bath.

A trickle the water truly was. The pitiful run was barely visible between the bed of stones and mud on the forest floor. _This was a river once._ She knelt and touched the satin cloth to the stream. The water was frigid, but as necessary for her cleanliness as the fire was for her warmth. Ah, the fire... It certainly sounded tempting now. _Mnh._ She squeezed the excess liquid from the kerchief and touched the damp cloth hesitantly to the skin on her arm. Her pores painfully peaked in protest, but she continued scraping the gore from herself. 

There, alone in the shade of the evening, she cleansed. The cloth wove through the three scarred rift on her side like a river in a canyon. Even after ten years, the marks had never shallowed. She often needed to bend to her opposite side to clean the deepest of places. A well of flesh on her left thigh still throbbed painfully when she swiped across it. She gritted her teeth. _That repulsive whoreson..._ She pried from within the cup of new scar tissue a chunk of someone else's bloodied meat and flicked it to the ground in disgust. The cock who had driven the rapier through her leg had suffered a lethal blow soon after their dispute, but to date, his lunatic behavior baffled her. An ambush while she was fighting an echinops. To what end? She still wasn't certain and had accepted she probably never would be. The man was dead. The creature was dead. She had been paid. None of it mattered anymore. 

Sighing, she rinsed more foreign blood from the cloth, submerged it until it ran clear in the stream, then continued her ritual. She needed to move soon. Water had the nasty habit of indiscriminately attracting the thirsty. When she could no longer detect her own smell, she whipped the rag dry as best she could and made for the encampment in the glen. Its glow invited her through the thicket. Every step she took she minded for there was no knowing what patrolled this area of forest at night. She had no desire to find out when she was unarmed and unclothed. Were a nekkar or endrega to cross her, there would be very little she could do to stop it. The monsters could also move with a subtlety no man could possibly hope to emulate. But men she could handle. If one feigned to provide them pleasure, they had a knack for permitting a woman lethal proximity. She had taken advantage of this on more than one occasion. In this wood, this late, this deep, however, she doubted anything less than monstrous would find her. Still, her ears strained for any movement out of sync with her own. Now that her pupils had adjusted to the dark, the deadlight she followed was a beacon calling to anyone or anything with the acute eye to spy it. As she approached, she decided to move more cautiously, just in case someone apart from herself had accepted its invitation, though she doubted it under current conditions. Once she came within an approximate observing distance, she crept steadily through the brush until-- she froze. There, standing with his back to her on the nearest side of the flames, stood a white-haired man in hunter's garb. 

He moved through the unfamiliar space equally as carefully as she did. He was in the process of noting her belongings. Two swords were strapped to his back. One was iron, but one was forged of silver. She felt a rift opening deeper and deeper in her stomach. _That hair... That sword... it can't possibly... But I can't bloody see._ The ashen rear of his head was still bowed and faced her direction. Ensuring she made no sound, she progressed round the perimeter. His apparent physical youth betrayed his hair color. That meant... but she needed a better vantage point. Perhaps her eyes deceived her in the dark. 

His tone of motion was exacting, purposeful. What did he want? Why was he here? Had he tracked her? A person such as he, with a silver sword such as that, would only appear under one very specific condition. Silently, she watched, taking care to shift only when he did. His head inclined toward her satchel and sword. He dipped his hand into the leather pouch and withdrew it empty. Nothing inside was worth pilfering. Some clothes, some empty potion bottles, the dregs of herb and other alchemical elements. Basic, unneccesary, undesirable. The most captivating thing of all seemed to be the corpse she had ignited. He analyzed it, prodding at it briefly with a stick before tossing the scrap of wood into the fire. When it didn't catch, he grunted knowingly and turned... When he did, she felt the sensation of her guts spilling from her insides. Something which was nothing less than monstrous had indeed found her. His amber irises could not be mistaken. He was a witcher. He was _the_ witcher. He was Geralt of Rivia.


	2. PART 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of Chapter 1

**PART 2**

_Shit. Shit!_ His wide cat’s pupils swept over and past her position in the weeds. They glinted like an animal’s catching the light of a sconce. A single scar split his left eye from forehead to cheek. While he hadn’t seen her, she still feared his ability to hear the rattling nerves in her breast. Quietly, she inhaled a slow breath, exhaling it just as slowly. _Steady._ It was then he spied the garments she had discarded.

“A sorceress… and a bloodied one at that. Lovely.” He growled. The corner of his mouth twitched into a snarl as he lifted her vest by the only stainless patch he could find. He dropped it again, repulsed. A puff of dust rose and fell back into the foliage as it hit the ground. Geralt hissed a quick high whistle. A few yards from where she was now hiding, a tawny mare plodded into the glade. _If I had made it a few meters farther, she would have exposed me._

“What d’you think, Roach? Stay or no?” As if in response, the mare snorted loudly, “Mnh. Agreed.” Geralt took the horse by the reins and led her as far away from the burning corpse as was possible while maintaining her in his field of vision, “You might not need that reeking heat, but I do.” He patted her snout, returned alone to the fire with his back to the sorceress, took a seat, crossed his legs, closed his eyes, and sunk into a state of meditation. Her heart was now clanking uncontrollably. Now what? She had not anticipated this in the slightest. This witching hour hadn't given her cause to think she would, no-- _could_ have human company. Her brains felt scrambled by the witcher’s murderous reputation. Before she left the scene in town, she had been witnessed (by no less than ten bystanders) acting in clear self-defense. For all the residents knew, she was innocent of any crime. Which of her attackers was left alive to send this mercenary after her? Cursing her heedlessness, she stewed over her options. She could only just make out Geralt’s shoulders moving rhythmically at the rate of his breath. The tightening and untightening of the seams of his jerkin reminded her naked limbs of the stinging cold. She wrung the filthy kerchief over and over and over in her hands, pressing her arms and legs closely to her center for warmth.

Leaving the encampment was a long shot. She was too deep in the forest with too many hours to go before dawn. Without a blade to defend herself and without rest after having wielded so much Chaos, the likelihood of her survival was low. And what would happen if she did make it through and waltzed into town with no clothes on? She didn’t indulge her imagination. Confronting the witcher, the Butcher of Blaviken, seemed her only choice, but he had the advantage in the dark. In fact, he probably had the advantage no matter the time of day. A mutant such as he was stronger, faster, could see in almost complete blackness, and had experienced far more battles than she had. She was young for a mage, just shy of forty, though her body was that of a woman far younger.

“Hey!” She shouted with inferiority. Geralt started, leapt to his feet, and pirouetted to face her with his hand on the hilt of his iron blade.

“Hullo.” He responded with surety. He browsed the glade concealing her, “Where are you, if you don’t mind my asking? Hard to have a conversation with a tree.”

“I’d prefer to remain hidden. I’m certain you’re sharp enough to surmise why.” She noticed his gaze flitting to the patch of grass where her garb lay, “I’d like to recruit your services, witcher. Could you do me a favor and toss me my satchel?” After a moment’s consideration, he huffed a laugh. She frowned.

“Are you suggesting to me that you’ve wandered naked into the wood with no form of protection? Your blade is here. I’ll admit to finding that decision strange, particularly this far from more civilized company.” Geralt had begun to slowly advance. A nasty smile smeared his face. His fingers clutched impatiently at the hilt of his sword.

“I assure you I have no form of protection. If I had wanted to ambush you, I might’ve done so in the ten minutes I’ve been watching you raid my camp and take a nap.” She lulled, monitoring his proximity closely. 

“Raid is certainly a harsh word. I haven’t taken anything. And no form of protection at all? Really? Like, I dunno, magic perhaps?” He gestured at the flaming body. His pace was gradually accelerating. The reality of her situation was setting in. He most certainly did not intend to do as she asked.

“Do use your head: I lit the corpse to stay warm. It’s near freezing out! Again, would I not have already ambushed you if I could readily do so? Please, just—”

“Forgive me if I have trouble trusting the word of a sorceress murderer who won’t show herself.”

“What-- murderer?” She could now hear the crunch of his boots. Fright pounded in her skull, “I’ve done nothing but protect myself.” Her crouched feet had begun to instinctively lead her away from him. She might be able to muster an Aard, but no more than a modest one. Modesty would not be enough to stop a witcher.

“Again, I have doubts about whether or not you’re being fully honest. I’m sure you’re sharp enough to surmise why.” His stare now hovered near the crinkling her feet made in the coppice. He had fully established her position, though she was still obscured by a veil of foliage. The moment she rose from the screen of leaves, she would have to run. She felt utterly powerless, a field mouse fleeing a panther. He loomed ever closer. 

Just before Geralt’s knees touched the thicket and unable to withhold her fear any longer, she spun around, sprang to her feet, and took off into the night. The witcher saw a sudden flash of movement a few feet away and drew his sword. The naked back of a woman’s torso popped out from the bushes. He was so flummoxed by her state of dress that he simply stood, stupefied by the nudity, for a moment before taking off after her. 

Each ran full tilt. Bramble slapped painfully against her skin as she sprinted, but the sound of Geralt’s pursuit, mere feet away from her, motivated her to move quickly. Her near-frozen musculature was howling in opposition. _Fuck!_ Her hands stung as they funneled the impeding vegetation from her eyes. _If I can just—_ Something hit her like a wagon. The wind swept from her chest as she was tackled to the ground from behind, chin skidding in the mud. The weight of the witcher’s body pressed her firmly into the tacky muck.

“This makes for more engaging conversation, eh? Let’s have a chat.” He snarled.


	3. PART 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of Chapter 1

**PART 3**

Everything was a blur. Wet dirt, kicking, writhing, the clatter of bones on rock, grappling, the cold, the warmth, the adrenaline. She dug her nails into the mud in an attempt to drag herself forward. The witcher was wrapped around her waist. Granules of damp sand which had clung to his arms when they fell ground raw red ruts into her skin. He moved aggressively up her rib cage. He was trying to contain her arms. If he succeeded, her chance to use even the weakest of spells would be gone. She swung her elbow back and pounded it over and over into the meat of his forearm.

The witcher cursed obscenely and changed strategies. He released her middle, sat upright astride the backs of her thighs, and used both hands to try and spin her to face him.

“ _Yrden!_ ” She screamed. The boom of her voice reverberated in the dark. A bright red orb materialized at her fingertips.

“Oh, no you ruddy don’t!” Said Geralt through clenched teeth. Using the flats of his shins, he propelled himself forward. Her jaw cracked shut from the force. The heft of his chest on her back compressed her farther into the stony bed. His head now even with hers, he powerfully snatched up her wrist and shook the trapping spell free from her control. It dissipated with a sharp hiss.

“Damn it- get… off!” She reached back and entwined the fingers of both hands in his white hair. Yanking as hard as she could while on her belly, she pried his face away from hers. His neck craned backward, but he fully ignored her action, instead seizing the opportunity to thread his arms beneath hers. Geralt shifted his hips back and hoisted her torso upward by the pits of her arms. The sorceress’ spine contorted into an excruciating backward ‘u’. She yelped and released him.

“Enough?” He growled between bursts of breath. She said nothing. Both sets of lungs heaved with exhaustion, “Well?” 

She could feel the heat of his panting on the back of her neck. As she emerged from the fog of her frenzy, the mage gradually rediscovered that her supple flesh, coated in filth from the riverbed, was fully exposed. Redness swelled in her chilled cheeks.

“I… I… yes. I’m certain there’s nothing I can say to convince you I don’t intend to harm you or anyone else, but I don’t. There are plenty of other spells I might’ve tried. I’ve no clothes, no weapon, and I’m magically spent. There’s… just nothing. Please… don’t.” She could feel her lids growing hot. If she was going do die, this was not how she had envisioned it happening. Hunted down like a sick animal. Naked, freezing, dirty, and crushed. She waited for a blade to slip across the seam of her throat.

“I’m not here to kill you,” His voice was filled with… was it pity? It was a complex melody in her ears, “You committed murder. I was told to bring you in, but I’m no killer. Monsters, certainly, but not people. You can come with me willingly or not, but you _are_ coming.”

“I was assaulted while performing a job I was paid to do. I acted only to defend myself. Who told you otherwise? Who sent you after me?”

“A man named Mikolaj found me in the tavern," _Mikolaj… of course,_ "But the carnage you wrought was clear the moment I arrived in town. You slaughtered those men, self-defense or not. It isn’t my place to play judge. I’m just here to make sure you do face one for what you did.” Neither spoke for a long beat. The sorceress could feel the hairs on her body bristling, the screwed up muscles in her back cramping.

“I’m nearly frozen. Can I please at least dress myself? Permit me that decency.” 

“I’ll admit I’m hesitant to release you. Know that if you do run, I will catch you. I am under contract.” 

“Fine.” She felt the strength in his grip relax. Her arms tingled with fresh bloodflow. Geralt let go abruptly and stepped back. Her palms hit the riverbed, catching her torso before it fell. She groaned. Glancing back at him, she saw he had turned away and was pulling his jerkin off over his messy head. The toned skin of his back was patterned with innumerable scars. He tossed the shirt to her. She caught it and pressed its warmth firmly to her chest.

“It’s not clean, but it’s better than nothing.” Without another word, he started toward the camp.


	4. PART 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 4 of Chapter 1

**PART 4**

Geralt pulsed the muscles of his jaw. _Well, well… I’ve set off on the word of a bum, what a surprise. Probably some petty lover’s spat--_ He was jerked from his thoughts by the sensation of his foot slipping from beneath him. Cursing, he regained his balance, kicked the delinquent mossy slab of stone to the side with the sole of his boot, and continued to tramp along. His ears alerted him to the sound of his errand’s footsteps behind him, far smaller, far lighter than his own. He checked back. The sorceress swam in his shirt, the rugged hem of which stopped a few inches above her knees. Her hands rubbed up and down her biceps in an attempt to generate friction heat. Echoes of her scent still filled his acute nostrils. Death, blood, turned earth, burning, decay, sweat, fresh water, but also something else buried far beneath the others.

The wood finally bore wide. A bright burial shroud still crackled pleasantly over the dead man’s body. Roach’s head was already perked in the direction of their arrival. She stood very still.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Said Geralt. The horse stared. He turned up his lip in a scowl and flipped open one of the mare’s saddle bags with agitation, “I’ve had enough of that today.”

“Are you talking to your horse?” The mage’s voice called from beyond the ring of trees. The witcher shook his head and chuffed. His hand rifled the bag harder.

“Let’s not stage this shitty conversation again.” Geralt withdrew a fresh(ish) shirt from the bag. He swung it over his shoulder, pivoting to face the voice of the sorceress. She stepped calmly into the glade still gripping her arms tightly together. A black smear of mud coated the bottom half of her face like warpaint.

“I was just making sure you didn’t have any friends with you. Well… any _human_ friends.” She smiled at Roach who was watching her closely, “She’s a pretty mare.” Geralt ignored her and donned his jerkin. The sorceress brushed gently past the witcher. Her smell refreshed his senses. Crackled bits of dried muck spattered her lips and cheeks. She reached tentatively for the nose of the horse. Roach pulled back and tussled her head with a huff.

“She’s not keen on strangers.” He loomed tall over the mage. A knowing disappointment crossed her grey eyes. There was something deeply sad in her expression that caught the witcher by surprise. Flipping the saddle bag closed, Geralt shouldered deliberately past her and took a seat beside the fire, “Go ahead and dress yourself. We’ll leave for town shortly.”

The tangling tongues of flame wove intricate patterns in the dark. He didn’t want to think about it. Any of it. He was hired to bring her to justice. Whatever happened as a result of that justice was none of his business… but the familiarity of that expression, that sadness, hung over him like a veil. 

She took her time. Perhaps the knowledge of her imminent arrest slowed her, perhaps it was something more intentional. Geralt tapped his heel impatiently. The longer they waited, the more she rested, and therefore the more powerful her Chaos became. As things stood, she was a magical wild card. She had at least demonstrated knowledge of slowing, trapping, and brutally slaying her victims, but did she also know how to portal? It was his greatest and most pressing concern, for if she did, he would either be forced to try and enter a portal after her or she would escape his custody which meant his venture would go unpaid. If he pursued her through teleportation, who knew where they might land? Or if they would even do so in one piece? And how the hell would he get back to Roach? He would be greatly dissatisfied with any available outcome.

“The volume of your brooding is impressive.” She laughed cordially. Geralt’s head rotated quickly to her commentary. She stood beside him in a tight-fitting leather vest and pants with a cerulean blue long-sleeved undershirt. Her wavy brown hair was tossed up into a knot high on the back of her head. The smear on her face had been cleaned. Her sword was fastened to her left hip and her satchel was latched to the back of her belt such that it hung over her buttocks. The witcher focused primarily on the sword.

“I don’t think so. Hand over the blade.” He extended his palm. She unhooked its sheath and slapped it into his outstretched hand rather harder than she had intended to. He eyed her suspiciously before rising to settle the sword on Roach’s back.

“It’s still many hours to go before the sun’s up. Stay close to Roach and mind your—”

“I’m not a child. I’ve clearly experienced the forest at night. You did literally find me in it.” She cut in, her arms spread wide in indication of the camp they were presently standing in. Anger bubbled in his blood.

“All I am saying,” He spoke steadily, trying to mask his frustration, “Is that there is shit out here to consider. This isn’t a leisurely stroll.” He settled the final straps over Roach’s gear and gave them a generous tug to check their security, “And as I mentioned earlier: if you run, I will catch you. I would prefer to keep this civil, but whether or not that happens is entirely determined by you.”

“I understand.” Each bored into the other with a confident stare.

“Fine then. Let’s move.”


	5. PART 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 5 of Chapter 1

**PART 5**

For a long while, the duo allowed only the clamor of insects to serenade their progress. Geralt had fully dilated his pupils. This expanded the absorption of light within his yellow gaze which now served as night watchman. His hand was hooked through the stirrup of the mare as he stalked the weeds. The mage trotted obediently beside the horse’s opposite flank. Roach had permitted her to set a palm delicately on her powerful thigh muscle for comfort. The sorceress had not yet tried anything, but the witcher remained equally as anxious about her as he was the wanderers of the midnight forest. This wood was an ancient and powerful one, its inhabitants equally so.

“So,” Came the voice of his errand. The sudden noise caused Geralt to tense his shoulders, “How do your contracts work, witcher?”

“Depends on the person initiating it. As a general rule: I’m told to do something, I do what I’m told, I get paid.” He replied gruffly, taking care to mind his volume. A fly picked annoyingly at the scar on his face. He swiped it away with a quick jab from the back of his free hand.

“And… when do you negotiate that payment?” Geralt furrowed his brow and looked briefly back at her. What kind of a question was that from a magic user? Had she not just mentioned fiduciary exchange? He hesitated before answering.

“Most of the time, after a job is done. Some things you’re leveraged for don’t turn out precisely as planned.” A film reel of botched ventures rolled in his head: missions spawned from lies, missions someone else got to first, missions his code deemed he deviate from, missions very like this one, “Some things I decide I just won’t do. Those I don’t do don’t get paid for, obviously.” Another fly tickled at his ear. He swiped again. “Damn these flies!” She seemed to consider his words. 

“Your means must be little, then, if you’ve a history of backing out of the deals you strike.”

“I never said I made a habit of it. It just… happens sometimes. Inhumanity in the way of progress, so to speak. I should think you’d have known that given your particular set of skills. I was under the impression you witches do that sort of thing all the time. Damn!” He slapped again at a fresh bug, “Why is—” Then the smell hit him full in the face. He halted and put up a hand.

“What is it?” She whispered. Geralt shooshed her harshly. He checked their immediate vicinity. Nothing was there. He peered farther ahead along the path. Nothing was there. Habitually, he dropped the sling of the saddle and gripped his silver sword. Noticing the placement of his hand, the sorceress crouched, sidling her back low to the rear of the horse. Roach was twitching her head anxiously. Both the witcher and the mage touched coaxing fingertips to her pelt.

“Shhhhh.” Cooed the mage. She didn’t sense anything imminent, but Geralt’s many mutations bequeathed him a far greater sensitivity to sight and scent. Placing a logical trust in his warning, she awaited instruction. It came in the form of a clear gesticulation and without a meeting of the eyes for his were concentrated the forest. _You- stay with the horse._ It said without saying.

_Something is out here with us._


	6. PART 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 6 of Chapter 1

**PART 6**

_“That devil has been terrorizing us all. She’s a fucking monster.” Dribble trailed drunkenly from the corner of Mikolaj’s mouth as he spoke. Geralt second guessed the swig of beer he was about to take and set the tankard loudly on the table alongside a single gold coin which he pulled from his breast pocket._

_“I don’t kill people, I’ve told you. I’m not a mercenary. I can refer you to one if you’re so inclined, but I’m not going out to commit a killing.” He rose from the table. The drunk man rose too and halted Geralt’s exit by the cuff of his shoulder. The witcher sneered maliciously._

_“Get your bloody hand off of me or you’ll regret it.” He spat._

_“Please- she’s got the whole village in an uproar. You must have seen the shopfront she left behind. A massacre- a fucking massacre in the middle of our streets.” Mikolaj boiled, “That along with all the other evil she’s spewing. And you’re going to stand there on some moral highground because she doesn’t have six legs or something? She’s killed innocent people!” Their impasse fogged up the small space of the tavern so fully that the barkeep and many of the patrons had now brought their volumes to a hush. Geralt ground his molars together. His amber irises burned hot with rage, his pupils swelling to a predatory size._

_“You think you’re the first person who’s tried to drag me into some petty squabble over spilt blood? I don’t. Kill. People. It’s as simple as that. I’m certainly not going to start now on the word of some piss drunk pig in this shithole you call a town.”_

_“You ruddy fuck!” The man made to grab the witcher, but was sidestepped with ease. Arms swiping animatedly, Mikolaj slopped to the floor, bumping the table on his way down. The tankard which had been resting on it spun and fell to the stone with a clatter, spilling its contents into the grout._

_“Hey, you witcher! None of that in here! Get the hell out!” The rather large gentleman tending the bar was prying his way over through the modest communion of bodies. Geralt scoffed at the bewildered boor on the brick and brushed out of the tavern._

_“Wait! Please, please wait.” Came a cry. Mikolaj was staggering from the door of the bar._

_“What?” Geralt was at the end of his patience. He stopped and faced Mikolaj. The man caught his breath, clutching both kneecaps and heaving dramatically. When his panting had slowed, he took a gulp of air and released it languidly before speaking with a serious tone._

_“I’ll pay you whatever you want, just… I beg you to be rid of her. I don’t care how it happens. She’s evil,” The stress of his inflection was bringing moisture to his eyes, “There’s no one here to stop her. Please… I beg you… Someone has to stop her.” Geralt took a long pause. He wetted his lips impatiently and shook his head._

_“I’ll help you,” He grumbled. The man instantly perked up, “but I’m not killing anyone, got that? I’ll bring her here, she’ll face your lord. It’s up to him to decide what happens then, not me.”_

_“Gods, you will not regret it. Thank you, witcher.” Mikolaj snatched up Geralt’s hand. There was a queer sense of victory in his countenance, “You've saved us.”_

_“Indeed.” Geralt pried his hand free of Mikolaj’s clammy grip, wiping it on the leg of his pants, “I’ll find you when the job is done. A hundred-fifty ducats.”_

_“Yes, yes- of course!” He grinned greedily, “I’ll pay it.”_

_“You will.” Geralt untethered his mare from her post and mounted her. She knew their directive as well as ever, making for the treeline on the outskirts of the village with intention. Mikolaj stood lopsidedly in the street. He watched as the outline of their bodies melded seamlessly into the shade._


	7. PART 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 7 of Chapter 1

**PART 7**

Geralt regulated his breathing such that the murmur of it was near imperceptible against the wind in the leaves. Whatever was watching was invisible even to him, but the blood of its fresh kill wove gruesomely through his nostrils. With each step he took, he expected to feel the sudden grip of mysterious fingers on his leg. He pursued any indication of what might’ve happened, noting that many of the young trees in this part of the wood had been cropped down to stumps. For housing or firewood? An animal building its nest? No, not an animal. Animals wouldn’t have been able to make such clean lines in the bark. It must have been committed by sentient hands from the village nearby. The situation had therefore become far more precarious.

The witcher cautiously followed his nose to where the dead one lay. An older man, displaying a grand crimson quadruplet of precise gashes in the small of his back, was face down in a pool of his own blood. Flies eroded the corpse by the dozens. A damning hatchet and a few scrappy branches rested just outside the reach of the man's outstretched hand. Piecing the evidence together in his mind, Geralt, now disregarding his volume under the pressure of time, swung his pack around and clawed through it.

“What is it?” Called the sorceress from where she stood with Roach.

“A leshen.” He said before guzzling the ruby contents of one of his potion vials, “Get your sword and move away from the trees.”

“A leshen?! This close to a settlement? We can’t be more than-“ She cut off mid-sentence. The witcher knew why. His skin was losing all hues of life. His eyes had become obscured by an obsidian black which seeped outside their wells and over the skin of his forehead and temples.

“I said get your sword. Don’t ask questions, just move.” Geralt repeated. He spun another vial around in his fingers, trying to determine its contents. Apathetically, he swigged it and chucked the empty bottle to the ground. He hastened to horse and charge. The mage was pawing clumsily through the multitude of saddlebags for her weapon.

“Damn it- let go of the straps!” She stepped away from the mare. He had the sword unfastened in seconds and tossed it over Roach into the sorceress’ hand. She bore it from its scabbard and stood at the ready. Knowing Roach was too well laden to be ridden by two people, Geralt gave her buttock a mighty slap. She yipped and plodded with bewilderment in the direction of civilization. He unsheathed his silver blade.

“Come here, stand with your back to mine. We move unless I say stop. If we make it to town, the leshen won’t follow.” And so they crept like two insects bound intimately together. Geralt could feel the rapid pulse of the sorceress through the skin of his spine. It was loud, her obvious panic distracting.

“I’ve only heard stories about leshen.” She admitted, “Is there something I’m supposed to be looking for? Or doing?”

“Just stay away from any trees while it’s hiding itself. And if you’re as tired as you’ve suggested, you’re not really bloody useful to me at all, are you?” He snipped, “Fire is useful. Magic is useful. Otherwise, the best thing for you to do is keep your trap shut and keep moving. I don’t want to have to carry your corpse back.”

“Sorry I asked, good Lor-“ But she never got a chance to appreciate the good Lords for at that moment, one of the nearby saplings moved against the wind in an unnatural fashion. Geralt thrust an arm out to halt the mage and to force her backward from the tree. The sapling slowly swelled in size, expanding until it stood nearly ten feet tall. Its branches spiraled into gnarled, thin legs and arms with wicked four-fingered hands. The modest collection of juvenile leaves it had wove brilliant green patterns into the monster’s otherwise woody torso. On the crown of its head sat the glorious white skull of a well-endowed stag. The forest guardian glowered furiously before them.

“Now, for example, would be an excellent time for that fire!” Geralt quickly traced the symbol of Ignis in the air. He sent the flame at the beast who swiped it easily away. It advanced in such a lithe manner that it was almost floating. A supernatural breeze created a funnel of dead leaves and debris around the leshen’s body which lashed out as it drew closer. 

The sorceress separated from the witcher. She tried to take a more advantageous position at the rear of the guardian. It whirled around and bore down on her. She sprang back, whacking her nimble blade uselessly against the thick bark of its skin. Without the aid of silver, her weapon could accomplish very little. Geralt, meanwhile, brought his elegant broadsword straight down where the leshen’s calf muscle would be. A horrific screech of scraping timber pierced the night. The leshen spun around with its talons spread wide. One of them caught the sorceress on the elbow as she brought up her arms to protect her face. Geralt parried the blow with his sword but was knocked backward by the strength of the impact. He stumbled a few times before catching his feet. The twin smells of human blood swirled around him. The sorceress’s right arm had been ripped open like a knife through cloth. It was draining heavily, but she was already back on her feet and poised to fight.

“Get away from it!” Geralt roared between massive blows to the flat of his sword from the leshen’s wild claws. The guardian emitted a howl and pounded brutally against the metal. The sound rang loudly out, but beneath its clanging, a new sound rumbled. Snapping branches, pounding footsteps, snarling, a frenzy of three black wolves burst through the trees. The sorceress receded from the conflict with the leshen and flipped the hilt of her blade impatiently with her good limb.

“Come on, then!” She taunted the dogs, stepping steadily backward into a veil of branches. Their ears perked in her direction before lying flat on the raised fur of their necks. They pursued her reclusion with menace, black lips curled viciously over white canines. 

_Fuck!_ Geralt could not break his concentration on the leshen for even a moment. Its blows came relentlessly: again, again, and again. He waited until the guardian’s arms were drawn back to strike. In an instant, he rotated his blade just so. The sharp end was now drawn to the incoming swing. The leshen smashed the meat of its paws directly into the keen edge. Geralt’s face contorted into a cruel, satisfied grin. The guardian wailed in agony as its fingers severed from its palms. The witcher pirouetted and swiftly carved one of its arms clean from its shoulder. It buckled forward to its knees. As he raised his hand to decapitate it, there was a sudden colossal boom. The canid pendant around his neck yanked painfully at his throat. He halted his execution and birled round. 

An enormous display of dark violet flame radiated grimly where the mage had led the dogs. Geralt was so struck by its immorality that he nearly dropped his sword.

“What in the hell…” His voice was a whisper, “HEY!” He shouted, abandoning the now powerless leshen where it knelt and sprinting for the demonic bonfire. Had she done that? Was that even possible from a sorceress so weak? Had someone else conjured it? Before he could reach the magic’s core, his necklace shuddered again. The glimmer of a familiar amber light sprang suddenly to life. _No!_ By the time he had secured a visual, the portal was spiraling out of existence. 

Geralt stood rigid, shocked, panting from his exertion, trying to process what had just happened. The wolves lay dead on the ground, their bodies covered in wicked burns. Much like the man from camp, the fire ravaged only the flesh of the animals. The surrounding foliage propped up the embers like it was offering a glowing gift. The pool the woodcutter had occupied was now rippling like a grease fire. The body itself was gone. Geralt's eye caught something else out of place on the forest floor. It was the mage’s satchel. He lifted it by the most accessible bit of strap. It flipped over. A shower of ducats poured from its mouth and nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.


	8. PART 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter 1 Part 8**
> 
> The next part will be the final part of Chapter 1's short story. Thank you to everyone who has supported this work so far! I've had a blast writing it.

**PART 8**

_“No, I’ll tell him. He should hear it from me.” The shopkeeper muttered, wringing her hands together. Celina placed a soothing palm on her shoulder._

_“Not just hear it. You should really ask his permission. The child is as much his as it is yours.” She said gravely, but gently. Although the keeper had shuttered the shop, the bustle of the early market outside had begun to fill the empty spaces between the racks of clothing to be sold, “Zofia, please say something. I need to know you understand the repercussions of what you’re asking me to do.”_

_“I do! I do understand. I just…” Zofia pressed her hands to her face, “I just don’t think Mikolaj will. He’s too thick or too drunk to understand bloody well anything!” Celina sat silent for a moment._

_“I’m sorry to press you into talking to him, but it’s a matter of principle. If Mikolaj is here and can be asked, he should be even if it’s difficult. Do you want a few days to think it over instead of doing this tonight? I can easily-“_

_“No! No, I’m ready now. If it were up to me, we would be there and not in this blasted place. If… If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be talking with you at all.” Tears swelled in her eyes, “I need to tell him I’m sorry. You must understand that, right? I have to tell him I’m sorry.”_

_“I know.” Said Celina. She pulled down the sleeves of her cerulean jerkin. A cold front was blowing in, “Where is the boy buried?”_


	9. PART 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 9 of Chapter 1

**PART 9**

“Let me be clear: if you don’t open this door, I will open it _for_ you.” Geralt said firmly, “And if I _do_ have to open this door, you’ll find I’m far less… composed than I am right now.” No reply came from the dwelling. The witcher could feel his unnaturally slow pulse beginning to accelerate. “You have three seconds before I provide your house with this lovely morning breeze. One… two…”

“W-What do you want?” Mikolaj squeaked from the safety of his living room, “Is she dead?”

“She’s not. You and I need to have a clarifying conversation about your motives, Mikolaj. Open the door.” Geralt sensed the man’s hesitation, “I promise, I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here for information.” After coming to his senses over the likelihood of escaping his present situation, Mikolaj unlatched the door and opened it with reluctance. 

“What then, mutant?” He stood squinting in the doorway as the sun peeked uncomfortably over the horizon. It was just the right medication for his hangover.

“That’s not very polite.”

“Neither is knocking down my bloody door this early! How did you even find me?” Mikolaj rubbed at his throbbing temples with one hand while shielding his eyes with the other.

“The baker was able to dictate your morning ritual to me quite well.” 

Mikolaj grunted knowingly before turning round and gesturing for Geralt to follow him inside. The house was suspiciously clean; immaculate, really. Every surface had been recently scrubbed, but the witcher could tell at a glance that this was the home’s typical state of being. Despite his alcohol driven behavior, the man certainly cared more than the average one about appearances. 

“What do you want to know?” Mikolaj slumped into a fur lined chair. He closed his eyes to listen, one palm pressed to his aching forehead. 

“Why did she attack the village? What exactly happened in town?” At this, Mikolaj’s eyes snapped open. He stared at the opposite wall.

“She killed two people. What more is there to say?”

“Yes, but why? I escorted her for hours, almost all the way back here. She gave me no cause to believe she was irrationally violent.” Said Geralt, “Were that so, she might’ve tried to attack me, but she didn’t. She knew full well I was there to arrest her. She did nothing to protest it. Why, then, would she kill two people in cold blood? There’s something here you’re not disclosing. I want to know what it is.” Mikolaj didn’t answer, “Mikolaj.” His head swiveled in Geralt’s direction. A scowl which was clearly unrelated to his recovery adorned his face.

“It’s none of your business.”

“It became my damn business the moment you hired me to pursue her. Now, tell me what happened.” Each stared down the other, intent on their position, “I don’t want to hurt you, but I need to know what’s going on. She’s loose. I need to know if she would hurt somebody else.”

“Well that’s their bloody problem, innit? She’s gone. I needed her gone. You and I are done.” Mikolaj nearly shouted, “And I’m not going to fucking pay you, so you might as well leave. No kill, no woman, no ducats.” Geralt lost his patience. He made for Mikolaj who rose to meet him. Gripping him at the collar of his night shirt, he smashed Mikolaj backward into the wall. Mikolaj’s face contorted furiously, but he pressed his lips shut tight with impertinence. 

“Listen here, you fucking idiot. Her power is dangerous, that much was obvious the second I got here. But now she’s free, I need to know if she intends to hurt somebody. You’re going to tell me that because you fucking dragged me into this and if you’re not going to pay me, you’re going to tell me the damn truth or I’ll extract it from you.” Geralt shook him violently once for good measure, “Eh? Get it?” Mikolaj huffed angrily before smacking Geralt’s hands away.

“My son died nearly a year ago.” He strained, but his tone was intentional, “My wife… my ex-wife learned about this… this witch, this necromancer, a dealer in death, that _bitch_. She… somehow convinced her that defiling my son’s corpse for money would give her some closure.” His hands clenched impatiently, “She lied! She fucking lied! Nothing’s gonna do that, not desecrating his grave, nothing. He’s gone. He’s _been_ gone. I told her as much, told her I wasn’t okay with it. It’s disgusting, that… She didn’t care. I found out what was happening, I brought others with me to stop her. I didn’t know what she could do, how dangerous it was… She killed them, in seconds, in pursuit of some fucking coin.”

“She killed them because they attacked her.” Geralt interjected.

“Does it fucking matter?” Mikolaj shouted, “They’re dead and out she walks with no scars to bare! Not just that, she left him… his… the body, the bones were moving, standing on their own.” His vision rippled with pain, “She just left him… him and my wife there. I had to… put… rest…” He brought his hands to his eyes, turned away, and silently wept. Geralt wasn’t sure how to respond. His mind was racing. A necromancer out and about, lending their services to whomever pays them, was a terrifying prospect by itself. But how many others had suffered consequences of her magicks? Or even more pressing, how many others would continue to if she was left to her own devices? Where had she gone when she ported? Why was this happening?

“Mikolaj,” He finally said. Mikolaj sniffed twice and took an empowering breath, “Know that I am sorry for what’s happened. You were right to want to stop her. What she’s doing is dangerous. I hope your family is—” 

“I want you to go.” Said Mikolaj.

“I will. Thank you for telling me what’s happened.” He left. Roach was waiting patiently for him in the center of town. He approached, patted her once on her powerful neck, and swung himself into the saddle. He could hear the sound of the coin Celina left behind clinking pleasantly together. What remained with him was a feeling of dread, a murmur in the back of his mind that out there was a perilous wild card dealing in death, spreading its influence in whatever method it deemed convenient to its pocketbook. He knew ultimately a stopper must be put to its ever expanding impact. How and when that would happen he offered up to destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading chapter 1 and for your patience as I deliberated on how best to bring this introductory story to a close. Chapter 2 is presently in the works.
> 
> -Illitis


	10. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2: Up From Here**

  


**PART 1**

“Up, I said!” The firm knock came thrice more on the wooden door. Geralt reacted slowly, sleep clinging to his muscles like tar. He lifted his back from the bedsheets with his forearms and blinked dazedly at the door.

“I know you’re in there- open up!”

_‘What in the seventh hell?’_ He flipped his feet over the side of the mattress. The lady of the night beside him purred drowsily in response to his motion.

“Whazzit? Whassappenin’?” She curled into a tighter fetal position and drew in all of the covers. Geralt grunted and stood. No wonder he was cold when he woke up. The surrounding inn room was entirely unfamiliar. What had happened last night? The racket came again. It was the voice of the proprietor. 

“Open the damn door--!” Geralt swept it open with such rapidity that the innkeep let out a small squeak. He coughed to regain his composure and frowned up at the witcher, “You! You aren’t welcome here!” The fury in his voice was betrayed by the fear with which he gawped at the witcher’s build, the scars on his now bare chest. The man was short and stout, much the opposite of his target. Geralt was stoic. The familiarity of the situation was monotonous at this point.

“And why is that, again? I’m sure I’ve paid you. If I haven’t, I can now.” He wasn’t actually sure about that. How much had he paid her? The innkeeper flushed red with anger.

“I don’t want your bloody florens- I want you _out_!” He stamped a foot.

“Why? Have I done something? Have I _not_ done something?” The whore was awake now and seated upright with the sheets and a lovely tangle of dark, curly hair covering her naked breasts. She peered round from her place in the bed, trying to catch a glimpse of the exchange now taking place.

“You’ve got five minutes or I’ll be calling the constable!” The innkeep pulled the door closed. Geralt could hear him tramping away. Gods, what _had_ happened last night?

“He was practically shitting himself lookin’ at ya!” Said the woman, “Well, ya can’t blame him. You’re an _omen_ , you are.” She au naturale-ly sprung to her feet. This situation was as redundant to her as it was him. She looked playfully back over her shoulder as she dressed, “Not that I mind experiencing an omen or two every once in a while.” Geralt admired her tanned buttocks briefly, then began to dress himself as well. 

“An omen of what?” He hesitated, the implication of his next statement tethering his tongue, “I didn’t… drop any death and destruction about the village last night, did I?” The prostitute dropped the trousers she was holding back onto the dresser in a huff.

“What, like ya don’t remember?” Geralt shook his head. She rolled her eyes and put on her pants, “Gods… Well, you’re not the first. What a disappointment, honestly. You were clearly pissed, though I didn’t think ya were that far given your performance.” Geralt still waited expectantly, half dressed, for her to answer his question, “No, though. You didn’t wreak any havoc anywhere ‘cept this room.” She smiled. He felt his shoulders relax in relief. He hadn’t gotten that drunk in a very long time. Not since… He finished dressing and looked about for his swords. They were eerily absent. He cursed himself. 

_‘What a risk to take, you fucking twat.’_ He held the door open for the prostitute as she adjusted the last of her clothes in the dresser mirror. She was very pretty, really, which surprised him given his inability to judge such a thing the night before. Her tussled hair and confidence only boosted her appeal.

“It’s Zuzanna, by the way.” She flicked his nose on her way past him in the doorway, “Not that you’re likely to remember that either.” She waved a flippant hand as she walked down the candlelit hall. He smiled a little and followed her out. The innkeeper watched puffily as they crossed the threshold. 

“Zuzanna,” She turned happily in the crunchy gravel at the sound of her name, “What blight did I impress upon him?” He tilted his head in the direction of the inn then whistled for Roach. The sound of plodding came from round the back of the establishment.

“Oh, nought much more than any other stranger does now in this godsdamn town.” She groaned, “Makes for bad business when they get run out so quickly, d’ya know? Weird though, that the innkeeper would take your coin the night before, then kick you out first thing in the morning, don’t you think? Must’ve kept his mouth shut tight yesterday when he saw ya. Got to keep his lights lit somehow, I ‘spose, even if he is a superstitious mouse of a ‘man’.” She twitched her fingers in air quotations. She was privy to some aspect of his manhood which Geralt was not. After a moment, the mare turned the corner and joggled her head. His twin blades were strapped sloppily to her saddle. He begrudged his own mishandling of them. Zuzanna paused before speaking again.

“We’ve got some _things_ , ya know? Weird things happenin’ of late. People actin’ strange, things going wrong. That kind of thing.”

“Mhm.” Made sense, really. Superstition about witchers was rampant and (most often) misguided. He adjusted the askew items astride Roach, packing things in tightly for his departure. If he wasn’t wanted at the inn, he certainly wouldn’t be tolerated in the rest of the town. What town _wasn’t_ cursed, he wondered, in these times? Zuzanna had turned and was eyeing him contemplatively.

“Could you stop them? The things?” She said with a sudden seriousness, “Cuz we’re suffering in the brothel, we are. So few staying for so little a time. D’you think you cou-“

“I probably _could_ ,” He interjected, “But whether or not I _would_ lies within somebody’s pocketbook.” Zuzanna pouted and pursed her lips together.

“Even given what I’ve just said? I don’t have much of a pocketbook, witcher. I should think you could do basic arithmetic.” She stepped close and trailed the tips of her fingers down his sternum, “I’ve a pocket, of sorts, but not much of a pocketbook to speak of. If I could give you a place to stay, some company, could you stop them?” In spite of her seduction, her face was a veil of intensity. He gently took her hand and pulled it aside.

“With respect, I don’t accept company as currency. It isn’t.” He said frankly. She chuffed, “I’ve a horse to feed, potions to replenish, and gear to maintain. Company, as satisfying as it may be, doesn’t exactly sustain my livelihood.”

“Don’t explain, I get it.” She retrieved her hand from his and bored into him with her bronze eyes, “Doesn’t sustain yours, but it does mine.” She withdrew from her pants pocket a meager offering of florens. He stared down at it, reluctant to accept it given the state of her affairs.

“Don’t do that either. I didn’t say what I did to guilt you into action. Just to tell you things as they are. Modesty hasn’t been in my playbook for a very long time, witcher.” She was stern, “Would you stop them?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being patient with me as I figure out the 'what comes next' in this story. Please comment, bookmark, kudos at your leisure. All of the feedback fuels my fire- you are all wonderful.
> 
> ~Illitis


End file.
